12. Leah
Leah
Ihave to get him out of my head.
When I reach my room, I sit down on the bed, considering my options. Once I get to Strata, I’ll need a way to keep Syrus out long enough to break the connection between us. Otherwise, he’ll just drag me right back to Infernum.
Some people in Strata sell charms and religious items that are supposed to keep demons away, but I’ve always been skeptical that they truly work—especially on the more powerful demonic forces.
If the Lord of Malice is strong enough to resist a whole team of sorcerers trying to control him, I suspect a bit of sun-bleached bone will be about as useful as a paper bag at holding him back.
My stubborn ass won’t let go of the idea though as I sprawl out on the bed and stare at the ceiling.
If I can stop the Lord of Malice from hearing some of my thoughts, then surely there’s a way to block him out entirely.
I swear there was a moment on the mountain that I managed to resist him, a second when he told my legs to move and they didn’t.
Could I train myself to get better at that?
I close my eyes and try to focus my mind, mentally feeling out the place he “speaks” into, that space in my head where he likes to prowl around.
Somewhere beyond that is the part of my mind he can’t automatically access, where my stream of consciousness plays out.
It’s only when the thoughts I have there get particularly loud that I accidentally bellow them at him like the world’s most suicidal town crier.
Now, if I could stop doing that and also find a way to expand that private space…maybe he couldn’t get in at all.
I can’t really test my theory out right now when he’s actually leaving me alone though.
And if I lie here with nothing to do, I’ll just go back to worrying, so I try to sleep some more.
It turns out it’s a shitty solution because I dream of red-eyed demons and three-headed cats and figures climbing out of a lake like corpses rising from the dead.
When I wake, it’s dark outside. I’m finally seeing Infernum’s version of night. Outside the window, the sky is black, and the flames in the sky—ourani I think Syrus called them?—look a little dimmer than they did in the day.
I check myself over, examining my hands and face in the mirror for any signs that the possession is taking its toll. I don’t know exactly what to expect, but I can’t imagine it’ll be subtle when it comes. Demons don’t really do subtle.
But for now, I look normal enough. Maybe a little worn out. But hey, infernal servitude will do that to a girl.
I slept for almost the whole day, so I’m hungry again. Déjà vu hits me hard when I open my door and find a big, furry shape lying beyond.
“You again?” I blurt at the hellcat as she gets up and places her massive front paws on the wall, half-heartedly clawing at it, as if her claws need any sharpening.
I breathe, trying to get my fight or flight instincts under control. But my body is struggling to believe huge black panthers lying in wait for us might not be a threat.
Triya drops her paws back down from the wall and then pads toward me.
I stay carefully still, not quite believing it when she dips her nearest head and bumps it into my thigh.
I nearly jump out of my skin when the middle head rubs its cheek against the back of my hand.
The third isn’t even looking at me, staring with interest at a moth fluttering near one of the lamps on the bridge.
“Hello,” I say, tentatively offering my hand, letting Triya’s middle head nuzzle it a little more. A deep, rumbling noise reaches my ears, vibrating through my body.
“Are you…purring?” I ask weakly. Triya just rubs against me for a few more moments, then the moth-obsessed head wins out, and she turns and chases the insect down the bridge without looking back.
I exhale in relief. That cat might have nine lives, but she knocks years off mine whenever she comes near me.
I start exploring the castle on my own, mostly just for something to do.
Plus, part of me hopes I’ll find wherever they keep the food when it’s not in the dining room.
I know there must be some staff around here—that breakfast didn’t appear of its own accord, even if demons have magic I don’t understand.
And yet it seems that Syrus prefers to keep his home as empty of people as possible.
Of course, based on my experiences with him, I’m not surprised his citizens aren’t lining up to hang out with their lord and vice versa.
I pass the now-empty dining room and take a corridor on the left.
A lot of the hallways look very similar, but I’m not worried about getting lost. Years of navigating the smoky plains made my sense of direction pretty good.
I’m just unused to the lack of decor. It strikes me that after centuries, someone should have accumulated a bit more stuff.
Maybe he’s a minimalist, my mind supplies as I glance up at a blank wall that would be prime space for a dramatic painting like the tapestry in the dining room.
Maybe he wouldn’t be so bored all the time if he hung the occasional cheerful watercolor or gave himself some houseplants to water from time to time?
I smile at the mental image of the Lord of Malice with a watering can.
Not that I can pretend to understand the first thing about what he enjoys or how he thinks.
What I could be reading as boredom might just be the way tyrants like him express satisfaction.
He’s probably utterly content with his position on the throne of a demon domain, enslaving helpless humans when it suits him.
When I realize I’m getting lost in thoughts of him even when he’s not in my head, I try to cut the train of thought short. It gets easier when I pass an open doorway and have to stop and stare at what’s inside.
It was probably a ballroom once—the space is large and empty with lots of mirrors lining the walls, though they’re mostly all draped with dust sheets. But what immediately draws the eye is the high ceiling—painted an azure blue—and the thing fixed to it.
I’ve never seen a chandelier like it. It’s huge, as big as a carriage, and made of orange glass.
But that’s an unfairly limited description.
It’s not just orange—it’s all shades of amber and tangerine and saffron.
Hundreds of curling tendrils snake out from the glowing center, like flares escaping the very heart of a fire.
The fronds of glass are blown so delicately, yet it feels like looking at an explosion, the way they shift in color from base to pointed tip giving them a sense of movement.
It’s the sun. That’s the only way to describe it—a glowing glass sun.
I don’t know why the sight of it confuses me so much. I suppose I can’t shake the nagging question why this, of all things, is the statement piece the Lord of Malice keeps in his castle. Then again, maybe it was here before his time, and he couldn’t be bothered to take it down. Probably that.
I spend a few more minutes admiring the chandelier, because it feels disrespectful not to give the work of art its dues, then I move on.
I discover another corridor running off the ballroom, narrower this time, and ending in a full flight of steps.
At the top, I find a gallery running around the edges of the room, presumably for people to look down on the action below.
I admire the chandelier again from this angle as I walk the length of the walkway, then carry on through a door at the end, which puts me on a similar gallery over a library.
There’s a door at the end of this walkway too, and I’m just wondering if there might be any books on demon possession in here when I hear a noise.
Not just any noise—a scream, ringing out clearly from the room beyond.
It sounds again before I can reach the door, long and bloodcurdling.
My hand stops, hovering over the handle, wondering if following that noise is incredibly stupid.
I don’t care—not if there’s a chance someone needs my help.
Plus, if I’m going to play the game, I need to know my enemy.
That includes whatever nasty things go on in his home.
I turn the handle, slowly inching the door open so it doesn’t make a sound.
This gallery overlooks a parlor, dimly lit by flames crackling in a large fireplace, casting their glow over the figures in a circle around the room. I duck quietly behind the wooden railing to peer down at them.
I recognize two of the people—Syrus and Quill, the bald guard demon who met us in the courtyard when I first arrived. The other demons with him are also dressed as guards, with molded leather breastplates and weapons on their hips or strapped to their backs.
The only one not armed, in fact, is the demon on his knees in the center of the circle.
His hands are shackled together, and he’s folded over, exposing the gray skin of his bare back to Syrus, who is standing over him with a whip in his hand.
A group of whips, actually, because the handle branches out into four separate lashes like a cat-o’-nine-tails.
“Five,” Quill intones in the common tongue, his deep voice filling the room as Syrus lifts his arm, swinging the whip down onto the demon’s back.
He howls as the lash connects, though now I see in the flickering light that it’s not made of leather or rope, but shadow.
The black tentacles bite at his flesh, leaving dark welts.
“Six,” Quill says, and Syrus strikes again.
On the seventh lash, the demon’s skin splits, green blood beading at the torn edges. By the ninth time Syrus wraps the shadows across his back, the blood is trickling freely down his sides.
My stomach turns at the sight, the demon’s sobs of pain jolting through me. Unable to watch any longer, I rip my eyes away from his twisted expression, scrutinizing the torturer’s face instead.
Even in the flickering light, it’s easy to read the taut control in his expression. There’s no anger or passion there. Though I can see the muscles bunching and uncurling in his shoulders as he lifts the whip, I sense the full power of them is restrained.
He must sense my staring, because he glances up, his eyes landing on the exact spot where I crouch behind the railings. He glances away, and I’d think maybe he didn’t actually see me, if it wasn’t for the fact his arm pauses mid-swing.
There’s a rush of sensation—fingertips on my spine, the ghost of a caress on my neck.
By now it’s familiar, but in this moment no less terrifying.
He fills my mind, and with him comes the sharp, hot tang of his anger, running along my nerves and heating my skin.
It crystallizes and constricts, his presence settling behind my eyes as he looks out of them onto the room.
For a moment, he just lurks there in furious silence, watching himself lower his arm.
I don’t say anything, afraid of provoking him further, but I hope he can feel the disgust running through my mind as he stares down at himself through me.
I hope he sees himself as I do—a cruel and ruthless tyrant.
Then invisible hands tug at my muscles, forcing me to my feet and twisting me so my back is to the room below.
My heart skips in panic. Is he going to make me do something awful like jump from this gallery?
But when the pressure of his magic starts driving my legs forward, it sends me toward the door I came through.
The touch isn’t gentle, but considering the violence unfolding below me, I can’t help but think it could be much worse.
The whip cracks, the demon roars in pain, and as I reach the door, I realize Syrus is gone from me. The pressure on my limbs vanishes as he slips from my body, leaving me oddly cold after the heat of his rage.
I suppress a shiver as I turn the door handle. I don’t need telling twice. I don’t look back at the room—at Syrus or the man he’s tearing open. I exit the way I came, with the cracking whip and the demon’s screams echoing behind me.